


Shears

by StarksInTheNorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff & Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24280222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarksInTheNorth/pseuds/StarksInTheNorth
Summary: Jon has a request from Sansa.-Semi-angsty fluff
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	Shears

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written + posted in 2017, back with some major edits. Honestly, this is probably one of my favorite pieces of fanfic by me so hopefully ya'll enjoy.

He has not cut his hair since Lady Stark insisted.

Life had been simpler then, when his only fear was Catelyn's judgmental gaze and his greatest desire was his family's acceptance. Jon sighs, thinking of how different the world has become in such a short few years. These halls used to echo with the shrieks and laughter of a playful pack running past servants and knights; now they are filled with soft, somber conversation whispered under flickering torchlight. Jon runs a hand through his thick, dark locks before picking up the shears from where they lay upon his bed.

He stalks from the chamber, down a silent, torch-lit hall. He turns at another, goes up a flight of stairs, turns again and walks until he reaches the other side of the Winterfell's keep. Sansa is within, unaware that he stands just on the other side of the large wooden door.

Jon stares intently at the door handle, an ornate brass piece shaped like a howling direwolf, with the opening apparatus between its powerful jaws. He harbors a sudden, keen awareness, certain she will take his request for a folly and laugh it away as she has laughed at so much before. But then, he is remembering a former Sansa, a different sweet sister who dreamed of knights and songs. This Sansa now will understand the pain and sorrow that burdens the strange question he will ask.

Finally, Jon lifts his hand into a fist and knocks. He waits few seconds before she calls, a light voice that somehow seems so distant, "yes?"

He pushes the door open, just wide enough for his head to appear in the opening. He takes in the sight of her, splayed across her bed with a leather-bound book in her delicate hands. She is in the middle of turning the page with a pale finger - he is interrupting something, a private moment. Jon feels even stranger about coming here like this, but she is the only one he trusts for such an intimate thing as this. "Sansa? May I come in?"

"Of course." She smiles at him, and his heart warms to see a happy bit of her, so rare in these times. Sheepishly, he steps inside her chamber and closes the door behind him. Sansa stands and motions to the chairs before her fire. "What is it? Is everything alright?"

Certainly she must think something is amiss. The only light in the room spreads from the candle besides her bed and the warmth of the hearth's flame. Darkness pervades outside, even though it is early, for winter is here in earnest. Jon gazes out her window, to the snow that swirls with each gust of wind. Winter is here.

"Yes, it's just, well, I was hoping you could help me with something." Jon stoops himself into the chair across from Sansa, who looks as regal as ever even in her grey nightgown and with her red hair plaited back. Sansa nods her head, setting her hair to bobbing with the motion.

"What do you need?"

"Well, I'd like… I'd like…" He stumbles over the words, and feels more like the boy he was when he left Winterfell than he has in ages. None of the skills he learned as Lord Commander are coming through in this statement. Finally at a loss, Jon holds out the shining silver scissors that have been clutched so tight in his fingers since he left his own room. His fingers are white, so hard did he hold them. "Will you cut my hair?"

Sansa laughs, but it is a gentle sort of laughter. She is not making fun of him, but enjoying his nervousness just a little. She reaches out and takes the offered shears from his palm.

"Are you sure?" She tilts her head, this is a legitimate question. "Your hair is so lovely."

"Yes, I've thought about it, and it just doesn't feel right." He sighs, searching for the best words. "I was never allowed to be so unkempt in this household. To return to Winterfell and not be… cleaner, it just isn't right."

Sansa nods in acceptance. "Alright. Come kneel here, if you would."

Jon removes himself from the chair to rest before her. She runs her hands through his hair, feeling out the snags and softness. He had not thought she would be so familiar with his head, but he also knew he would not ask even Sam to help with this pursuit. There is something comforting about her strokes, even before the blades come out. Jon closes his eyes and lets his mind think of nothing but the calming touch of a woman's hand in his hair. Never mind that it is his sister, never mind that he should not feel like this when she is touching him, or near him at all. His only focus is a gentleness he has not felt since Ygritte in a cave far more north than he ever hopes to go again.

"Are you ready?" She asks, voice soft in understanding. He lets out a noise that is half affirmation, half moan.

The sound of metal on metal preludes the first curl of his hair falling to the ground. Jon nearly recoils as he feels it gently cascading across his cheek and onto his hands. He steels himself against her motions, the motions he longs for, as more and more of his previous identity is returned with each clip of the shears.

Sansa is careful, methodical about the process. He does not see her face, but nonetheless Jon can imagine her biting her lip in concentration, her brow knit together as she plans each precise stroke. It is over quicker than he would expect, even though the trimming itself felt like a lifetime. Sansa hums, observing her handiwork.

"Would you… would you like me to trim your face as well?" She asks, weighing the words as she says them. Jon nods, slowly. He pivots on his knees so that he is looking up at her.

"Please."

Sansa runs a hand down his cheek, soft skin against the harsh bristles of his beard. Jon leans into that touch again, so desperate is he for some warmth and affection. He is too long frozen by the wall, by the North, by death itself. He does not startle as his head settles against her leg, pressing against the pillow of her flesh. Sansa's hand goes back to run through what is left of his hair. He can feel it, there is still some curl, and her touch feels more like it belongs there than anything has in so long.

Before he wishes it over, she withdraws. Sansa clips the part of his face that does not touch her first, before gently shifting Jon's head so the other side is on her other leg. Finally, the act is done, unable to be removed again.

He is sure he looks years younger, but somehow Jon feels scores older than he ever was before. He looks up into her warm eyes. By her gaze, he knows she understands those sad, unfortunate, forbidden things he can never say allowed.

Jon takes her free hand in his. "Sansa, thank you. Thank you."

Sansa squeezes his fingers in her own, conveying a silent message just meant for the both of them. There is memory in this action, forgotten things and beloved things, but he puts those thoughts aside now to focus only on the scent of lemon all around and the woman with her hands in his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think, then come hangout on [tumblr](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com) to talk about Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa, OT3, ASOIAF, and GOT. I also take prompts in my [ask box](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com/ask/).


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